


080 - That NME Article...

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Sick/Sad Van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 04:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A fic about: This NME article - https://www.nme.com/features/catfish-and-the-bottlemen-on-storming-america-fighting-burn-out-and-following-up-the-balcony-intervi-756583 - rewritten as a fic. I have many opinions about that article…  I suggest reading it before reading this story.





	080 - That NME Article...

Larry calls you as a final resort. "He's getting sick, Y/N. Like, proper sick. I'm worried," he says. You can hear the concern and you know he is asking for you to come.

"Does he know you're calling me?"

"No. You know he'd kill me. He's pretending it will be alright, you know. Won't consider cancelling shows. He's even tried to stop smokin'. I don't know what else to do.”

You book the next flight out to the U.S. to meet them in Chicago.

When you get out of the cab out the front of Schubas Tavern the air is icy and still. You look up at the darkening sky. It will probably snow soon. There is already a long line of people waiting for the show. Some of them are wearing Catfish band shirts, and you smile with pride. Your boy has done so well. You walk around the back to where the bus is parked. It's unlocked, and you climb the stairs and walk in.

Inside everyone is deep in conversation about Van's voice. He is standing, leaning against a wall. His head is hanging down and you can't see his face. A few of the guys look up as you walk it. Mike, Catfish's sound tech and tour manager, is talking. "You have three options. Option one: sing as normal. From what you're saying that's not really an option. Option two: get the audience to help you. Get them to sing like you did that night in Leeds. Option three: pull the gig-"

Van's head flies up and he says, "We're not pulling the gig." He still doesn't notice you standing behind Bob. "People have already paid for the tickets with the little money they get from their shitty jobs. They've been waitin' out there for hours in the freezing fucking cold. We're not cancelling." His voice is raw and it sounds like it hurt him to speak. You know it hurts him more to think about postponing a show.

"Van," you say, announcing your arrival. You step out and move across the small space to him. He goes into shock for a second, then collapses into you. His head sits on your chest and his arms wrap around you, hands clinging tight to your jacket. "Hey baby," you whisper to him. You look around at the others. Nobody knows what to do for him. Larry moves to push the door between the main space and his and Van's little hideaway open. "Van, come on, let's go sit for a second." You drag him into the room, not able to get him to let go of you. Larry comes in with you. You go to sit on one of the two small sofas that they sleep on, but Van crumples down onto it first. He pulls you on top of him. You lie on your sides facing each other. He keeps his head buried and holds you tighter. He starts to cry and they are small sounds. Larry sits on the edge of the other sofa. His hands are held together like he's praying, and he rests his chin on the tips of his fingers. He watches Van like a mother would watch a child in pain.

You remember suddenly a moment from when you were younger. You were sixteen and fearless. Van had quit school the year before, and his reputation grew because of it. You, by association, were considered almost as badass. It was a Wednesday morning and you went to school despite feeling sick. By midday you wanted to cry. Your stomach was in knots and your muscles ached. Your head pounded and you wanted your mum. You calmly told the teacher you felt ill, and she sent you to the front office. There they tried for anyone at home. As they dialled number after number, you started to panic. They'd not let you leave unless someone came for you. You kept it together, but when Van finally walked in, you broke. You sobbed into his arms and he had to carry you to his car. Your mum had given permission for him to pick you up, and seeing him was like the levee breaking. That is what it is like for him now. As soon as he saw you, that was it. He couldn't be stoic or tough anymore.

Van sobs for a good five minutes before calming down. You let him breathe, running your fingers through his hair. "I'm so fucking tired, Y/N," he whispers.

"I know, baby,"

"We have to get up early to go radio sessions. People there getting' better shows than the ones people pay for,"

"I know. I know it's not fair. But that's how you get big, yeah? That's what you told me. Have to do the sessions if you want to be the biggest band in the world?"

He nods into your chest. You get Larry to boil the kettle and mix the hot water with lemon and honey. You light a cigarette and go to put it in Van's shaky hand, but he can hardly hold it. You act as his hand and help him smoke. He sits up when Larry brings the hot drink. The three of you sit quietly for a while, which is a familiar feeling for you.

"They want you to know you can cancel, Van. Even now. If you push yourself tonight, how are you gonna do the rest of the tour?" Larry says. Van looks over at him, eyes rimmed red. You rub Van's back.

"I'm not cancelling."

He doesn't, and everyone folds and does what Van says. As the lights go down and the crowd cheer the arrival of Catfish on stage, Van speaks. He tells the audience his voice is fucked, and they can hear it is. He says he needs them. They oblige, and sing every word. Van throws himself around on stage harder than usual. It's self-destructive and you and Larry glance at each other nervously. Van is trying to make up for his voice. He's trying to prove he cares. Everyone knows he does, so the show isn't needed, but he performs nonetheless.

His voice goes through phases during the show. During Pacifier it almost sounds normal, but in 26 it cuts in and out. Van says to the crowd, "If any of yous want ya money back afterwards you can have it. I feel dead awful, yeah? Or I'll buy you a beer. Promise. I'll buy the whole place a beer." You know he probably will. Someone at the back yells at him to shut up and sing, and he laughs. It's his first real smile of the show.

After Fallout, which sounds near-perfect, Van's grinning out at the sea of people. "Did I promise you all beers? Just done that maths in my head. That's a lot of fucking beer." They laugh, and yell and scream for him. His grin starts to fade in Business. He sounds bad, and you cringe at how painful it must be. Mike leans in between you and Larry.

"He needs to stop, right?" You both shrug. Mike can try all he likes, Van isn't going anywhere. You watch him run on stage and put an arm around Van. He whispers something, most likely the offer to stop the gig. Van shakes his head furiously. He changes then. The knowledge that people are standing around thinking he can't do it makes him want to even more. Kathleen growls out of him, and it's like he's not sick at all. At the end of Homesick the lights all fade and only Van is illuminated. He strums his guitar gently and belts out the words. He isn't hiding behind the music; it's all voice and he's really fucking vulnerable. You watch him rock back and forth and sing. The crowd goes fucking mental.

They all leave the stage for a minute to catch their breath before Tyrants. Van comes over to you and Larry, and starts to cough. You hold a towel out to him and he coughs up half a lung into it. He reaches out for you and you rub his back while he rests his head on your shoulder. Mike goes out onto stage and tells the audience that they've genuinely put enough money on the bar for everyone to have a pint. They cheer. You wipe the sweat from Van's face and kiss his forehead. He leaves you to go back on stage.

After Tyrants everyone piles back onto the bus quickly. You, Van and Larry close the door to the small room and sit for a few minutes. You and Larry listen to Van's harsh breathing, giving each other worried glances. Van is lying down with his head in your lap. Larry looks out the window.

"A few people out there, mate," he says. Van nods, sits up and runs his hands through his hair.

"You stay here," he says to you. "Too cold for you to be standin' around." You simply shake your head and follow him out of the room. You stand next to Larry, leaning against the bus, and watch people fuss over the guys. You listen to people tell Van how much he means to them, how much his lyrics do. One girl says that he's changed her life; that she thinks maybe things will be okay now. Another boy says he had bronchitis when his band played a few weeks back, and that he thinks Van is beautifully fucking mental for singing through illness. When each person has hugged Van, probably caught his sickness, and had cute photos, Van lets you pull him back onto the bus.

As you walk through there is an interviewer from NME talking to the guys. Van stops to talk to him too. You go to give them space, but Van holds you close, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. Larry disappears into the back. NME asks about the next album. You know Van's already written it, and you're favourite is probably the closing track Outside, or maybe Soundcheck, but he doesn’t give much away. Van explains how his voice ended so fucked, and how jumping through record label hoops is frustrating. There's an endgame, though. NME ask if it's still fun; the touring, the parties.

"It's not really like that, mate. I tried to slow it down 'cause I realised I wasn't enjoying it proper. All the lads would be having a laugh and I'd be coming off stage thinking 'fuck, I missed that note.' Just got to enjoy the ride more, you know?"

You smile. Van looks down and winks at you. Nobody but you, him and Larry know the name for the second album yet. NME ask about money, then; that it's got to be good coming from nothing to having disposable income for the first time. He looks at you and says, "You have got to be happy to be dating a rockstar for all that, yeah?" The room goes silent and you hear Bondy chuckle under his breath.

"Watch it, mate," Van starts. His voice sounds dangerous and the sickness amplifies that. "She's loved me since I was on the dole. Since I was a loser kid. We don't touch that money. Even if I wanted £40 to go to the pub. I've just kept it all and when I have a kid I'm going to give it to them." NME doesn't reply a first, not sure if he's made Van angry. Van continues, lost in thought of your future family. "Means every single song I ever wrote will mean somethin' to somebody. I want to be the best dad and the best husband, like my dad was to me." NME nods, and directs a question elsewhere. He's spooked by Van's intensity, and you know whatever he writes probably won't reflect who Van is. He's sick and sad and tired and moody. He's on the defence, and he's never liked NME much anyway.

The guys head off to a bar, and you keep Van and Larry back with you. You gather a bunch of blankets and make a nest on the floor of their room. You make Van another drink. He cuddles into your side when he's finished it, and you accept the fact they want to watch Austin Powers. Van perks up a bit and he asks how long you can stay on tour. You tell him for as long as he needs you. "I always need you," he replies seriously, while watching the movie. He looks over at you when you don't reply. You lean in and kiss him, but he pushes you away. "You'll get sick."

"Keep your mouth closed then."

He does, and you kiss his lips. You kiss the tip of his nose and his forehead and each cheek. Larry makes dramatic sounds of mock disgust. You lay quietly with them. Larry falls asleep before the film is over.

"I got homesick for Chester. That's how fucking sad I got," Van tells you. He never gets homesick, so it's saying a lot. You laugh. You sit up with him while he writes out some lyrics that came to him earlier. Song writing is Van's counting sheep. When he's done he burrows back under the blankets between you and Larry. He pulls the covers up around Larry, making sure he's warm and tucked in, then he turns to you. You open your arms and let him get settled on your chest. You kiss the top of his head and listen as his breathing falls into a sleep induced melodic pattern. He'll be alright.


End file.
